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LONG    LANCE

ask for more* When we were in winter camp we
would ask our fathers to erect a whipping-bar for
us in the council lodge. Two poles would be
sunk into the ground and a bar stretched across
their tops at the height of an average boy's reacli.
And then on extremely cold days when we could
not get out of doors to go through our games and
contests, we would all get together and ask our
fathers to give us "the whipping of the brave5.

One by one, as the tribe looked on, we would
bare our backs and walk up to the bar and take
hold of it. Then the 'whipper', who had been
chosen by our fathers, would step up and start to
flog us heavily with a bunch of stout fir branches.
When we could stand It no longer we would let
go the bar, which was the signal that we had had
enough, and the flogger would stop. The more
stout-hearted among us would sometimes stick It
out until the flogger had completely worn off the
switches* Then he would stop and hand us the
stub,, which we would keep and display with con-
siderable pride during the rest of our young lives.

I well remember my first introduction to the
icy morning plunge. I must have been five years
old. One cold morning my big brother came
over to my sleeping nest and grabbed me out of
my bedding and raced down to the river with me
under his arm. I was squirming and yelling and
kicking at him, trying to get away. It was very

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